


Diamonds and Pearls

by superglass



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Bottom Harry, British Harry Styles, British Louis Tomlinson, Choking, Chronic Illness, Crossdressing, Drag Queens, Feminization, Fluff and Smut, Genderqueer Harry Styles, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Harry in Lingerie, LGBT culture, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Light BDSM, M/M, Meet-Cute, New York City, No deaths!!!!, Rimming, Smut, Top Louis Tomlinson, Trans Female Character, and a bit of, ballroom culture, is that a tag?, like gay ballroom culture, that's all i can think of for now, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28656726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superglass/pseuds/superglass
Summary: He expects his usual warm welcome from Sue, always drying off a glass or cleaning the taps with a dirty rag. Instead, to his shock, a man is behind the bar, pouring a Whiskey Sour for a regular Harry always sees at this time of night. He’s no doubt his age; he can tell by the smoothness of his skin, the muscles in his biceps, the way his hair is swept back in a style not unlike a young James Dean, exemplifying the cut of his cheekbones and the sharpness at his jaw.As he approaches the bar, quietly since he’s not wearing his shoes, he blurts it out— “Where’s Sue? Is she alright? She’s not dead, is she?”The barkeep, wide-eyed at first but quickly growing amused, smiles at him, eyeing his dress, tousled wet hair and smudged makeup with a curl in his lip. “Darling,” he says, completely ignoring his question, “a leather jacket with a dress like that? Are you mad?”orIn the midst of the AIDS crisis, Harry meets Louis after coming home from   a drag ball. 80s NYC au.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 118





	Diamonds and Pearls

**Author's Note:**

> TW for character illness. And alcohol.

_ 1991. _

White light streams through the windows, making him see red behind his eyelids. He groans, rolling onto his side to press his face into the pillow. It still smells like him— it still smells like cigarettes and cologne and the shampoo he bought at the market two weeks ago. He breathes it in deeply, some sort of hay-smelling cotton pillowcase filling his nostrils. If he can fall asleep again, maybe he’ll see his face.

He hates the mornings because of this feeling— remembering. When he drifts awake from a soft, sweet dream, he can only stay in that world for as long as it takes to wake up. Then, he remembers, and it hits him like a truck— no, like a freight train, unable to stop, barrelling down the railway and blowing its whistles like it might make Harry dive off the tracks for safety. But it’s always too late for that, anyway.

Rolling on his back, he stares at the ceiling. He’ll go to the hospital again today. He’ll see him, and he’ll take care packages that himself and Sylvia stayed up making last night, and he’ll deliver as many as he can to the other patients on the floor. He’ll sit there and talk to them, let them cry on his shoulder, call up their loved ones for them. “You’re brilliant,” Louis told him last month when he’d started visiting the hospital. “You don’t know how much these people need someone like you— someone to comfort them.”

He doesn’t need the merit for it, the kudos. He does it because… Because he has to. Because he  _ needs _ to. 

Lucy jumps onto the mattress, purring loudly in his ear. She paws at his chest before plopping herself right down, her whiskers tickling his nose until he giggles. 

“Silly girl,” he whispers, licking his lips though his morning breath is killing him. Lucy meows, tilting her head curiously at him. She’s been acting strange all week— clawing at the door and sitting atop Louis’ dirty clothes that Harry hasn’t got around to taking down to the laundromat yet. She wouldn’t eat her food for hours, some sort of cat hunger strike that lasted until she gave up and ate it anyway. Some solidarity she had. “You miss him, don’t ya?”

Lucy meows again. Her Siamese cat face, light blue eyes— the same color as Louis’. Her tiny pink tongue that hangs out of her mouth sweetly. Harry pets her lightly, smiling, reminiscing.

  
  


*

  
  


_ 1988. _

“I don't know how you do it, Harry,” Sylvia sighs as she powders her cheeks with a deep purple rouge, pouting in the mirror. “You always look  _ so  _ gorgeous.”

Harry grins, snapping his garter belt into place. His nylon stockings— fresh from a set he'd bought inconspicuously at B. Altman last Tuesday— are stretched tightly around his toned legs, pale beige and almost iridescent. 

“Sylv,” he says, “ _ you're _ one to talk. I can’t believe how wonderful your surgery came out— you're a new woman!”

Sylvia stands from the vanity, blushing, her chest slightly puffed out in confidence. The theme tonight, 1920s jazz, has sent them all into silk and pearls and fringed dresses, pinning their hair into slicked waves and waiting hours for it to set the right way. Their resident hairdresser, a Greek woman named Cinzia, knows just how to manipulate all of the performers’ hair types: long or short; kinky and curly or straight as needles. Harry was thrilled with the way his own turned out, and couldn't stop himself from brushing his fingers over where his hair— short but curly around the edges— swooped over his high forehead in gelled finger waves.

(“She’s giving us Daisy Buchanan!” said Sylvia when she had placed a thin jeweled headband horizontally around Harry’s head, winking at him. “Baby,” she said, patting his cheek with her warm hand, “you gon’ go out there and give us all tens just from the look on your pretty little face.”)

Jackie, halfway through drawing on her high brow, turns around in her chair and pushes the end of her black kohl pencil into the center of Harry’s chest teasingly. “Girl—” she pops her gum loudly— “you know how jealous we are of you. Your chest is halfway there without even  _ trying.” _

Harry laughs loudly, a sort of honk as he adjusts the strap on his pale blue nightgown. It's a vintage piece, one that he'd found in the back of an antique shop in Chelsea. His chest was, in fact, too broad for it— to the point where he'd had to get it tailored by JC, Sylvia’s partner and longtime performer since the sixties. He'd stopped participating in the balls when he met Sylvia some nine years ago, opting instead to help out everyone by putting his old Singer sewing machine to good use. (“It'll be a tight fit, baby,” he'd told Harry in a warm, dark brown voice, muffled by the pin stuck between his lips, “but you will look stunning on Friday night, I promise.”)

He's not conceited, he doesn't think— he just looks fantastic tonight.

The ball is filled with people on any weekend, but tonight the venue is loud and pompous. The speakers blare a Donna Summer record; men and women blaze through the crowd, stepping on each other's feet, elbows and shoulders sharp and brash, dancing flamboyantly. 

Harry’s performance is outstanding, and earns them all tens by the judges. The crowd parts for him like the red sea, and he doesn't even trip in the low heels he walks in, stepping carefully and precisely before posing. This Harry: confident, brazen, bold in a way that seems like he shouldn't be. In his pale blue silk gown, in the pearlescent beads strung around his neck, in the way his jawline and the dust of facial hair below his nose reminds everyone that he’s treading the line of feminine and masculine, as androgynous as one could get with a little help from his friends. 

People cheer and gasp and shout at him, clapping loud enough that the president could probably hear it all the way down in DC if he listened carefully. The song— Diana Ross’  _ I’m Coming Out _ , as Harry poses with one hand on his hip and the other delicately raised as if toasting a dry martini, his face stoic and unmoving, the bow of his lips pronounced by the lipstick Jackie helped him apply properly before the show. 

After having a shot or two to make him feel loose and pliant, he toes off his heels and starts to dance, leisurely grinding on any man in the crowd as the speakers blare, or twirling around with Sylvia until they both feel dizzy. The night is young and loud and ready to be snatched up by Harry’s big hands— to be squeezed dry and rung out like a sponge.

November winds fight them outside, as Sylvia and Jackie attempt to invite Harry down to the piers where maybe they can find something to do, somewhere to go. Harry declines politely— he’ll probably go back to his soon, or find another club nearby to keep dancing. It's 1988, he says, and they're in Manhattan: there's always some place to find refuge in.

Making his way down Bleecker, his heels dangling from two fingers, his new stockings absolutely ripped at the heel, he thinks of lyrics to a song he vaguely remembers, one his mother used to play when he was a little boy, when he was still charming smiles, dimples and curls and denim dungarees.

_ You dance with the lady with the hole in her stocking _

_ Didn't it feel good? _

He bites his lip, staring up at the street sign for Broadway. Across the way, standing in a dark alleyway, a lonesome cat blinks at him lazily, resting atop the lid to a metal garbage can. The can itself is toppled over beside it, spewing out trash for the rats to paw at if they crawl up from the sewers.

Harry stares back at the cat, blinking back at him, and wonders idly if cats think he looks different, silly even with his women’s clothes and makeup and jewelry. He shakes his head, walking a few blocks further before dipping into a bar he knows well, one which will be quiet this time of night.

It's his favorite because the bartender, an affable old lesbian named Sue, will indulge in the stories he has to tell, the gossip from the ball scene, the concerns he sometimes has about the way the judges score them which he’s certain is biased, the new crush he'll have every few weeks on men he knows are unattainable. Sue always listens, even when she's pouring someone else's drink or washing the dishes with her worn, wrinkly hands. She gives him advice: “don't date him, honey-bun, he sounds like a real schmuck,” or “you know, you need to tell Sylvia and— what’s his name?— to start their own ballroom and do it all themselves. Those good-for-nothing judges— what do they know, huh?” after one of them had lost to a better group of performers.

Furthermore, he likes the bar— lovingly named  _ Patti’s _ after Sue’s late partner— because of the slowness of it, the way it doesn’t feel like Manhattan when you step through its friendly doors but instead like some old-fashioned, quaint little parlor you might find in your typical suburban hometown, older generations puttering around like they’ve fallen out of their prime and they’re alright with it. Even the music is passé— if not Sue’s favorite Louis Armstrong record, then something late-60s and nondescript, Leonard Cohen and Neil Young, or Grateful Dead if she wants to have a cordial little dance with Harry on the distressed wooden floorboards. 

As he steps down and into the dim lighting of the basement, he passes the lazy bouncer who rarely ever stops anyone from coming in, because why would anyone  _ want  _ to sneak into a quiet pub that rarely has more than twenty guests at once? 

He expects his usual warm welcome from Sue, always drying off a glass or cleaning the taps with a dirty rag. Instead, to his shock, a man is behind the bar, pouring a Whiskey Sour for a regular Harry always sees at this time of night. He’s no doubt his age; he can tell by the smoothness of his skin, the muscles in his biceps, the way his hair is swept back in a style not unlike a young James Dean, exemplifying the cut of his cheekbones and the sharpness at his jaw.

As he approaches the bar, quietly since he’s not wearing his shoes, he blurts it out— “Where’s Sue? Is she alright? She’s not dead, is she?”

The barkeep, wide-eyed at first but quickly growing amused, smiles at him, eyeing his dress, tousled wet hair and smudged makeup with a curl in his lip. “Darling,” he says, completely ignoring his question, “a  _ leather jacket  _ with a dress like that? Are you mad?”

His accent is thick, and as English as one can get. Harry’s eyes widen in surprise, anxiously slipping off his jacket (not because this bloke told him to, because it was warm in here, alright?) and slipping onto a stool near the end of the bar, where he always sits. 

“Sue’s fine,” says the barkeep to Harry, still smiling, “M’her neighbor. She’s asked me to step in, ‘cause she’s ill this week.” Harry starts to pout, a worried thread through his brow, until the barkeep shakes his palms in front of himself as if to chase the thought away. “Oh no, no! Nothing horrible, just a little cold, she’s told me. I reckon it’s hay fever— she always gets a bit sick around this time of year.”

Harry blows a raspberry with his lips, raising his eyebrows in solidarity. “She hasn’t met me. I get so stuffy with allergies it sounds like I’ve got a frog in my throat.” He pauses— “Well, more so than usual, at least.”

The barkeep tilts his head at Harry curiously, a strange look on his face, like he’s trying to figure out some hidden meaning behind Harry’s words. He thinks for a moment that he’ll say something—  _ who are you? How do you know Sue? Why are you dressed like that? Why are you here? we only ever see gays over the age of sixty here.  _ But instead he just asks, “What can I get for you, um—”

“Harry,” he supplies, blinking up at him idly. It doesn’t go without his observation that the bartender’s eyes are the same color as the nightgown he has on right now— pale grey-blue, Louis blue as he’s seen it be called in books and paint hues in art history classes in college: a color that Harry adores for reasons he can’t explain. 

“Right,” says the barkeep, clearing his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. “What can I get for you, Harry?”

The night rolls on like a soft wave that kisses the sand over and over, pulling the tide gently as if it doesn’t want to wake the beach. The bartender— who Harry learns is called Louis, same as the color of his eyes— is happy to talk with him all night long. They make conversation as easy as breathing, as easy as it is to sing along to the words of the song playing softly over the bar’s speakers:  _ The Man in Me  _ by Bob Dylan.

“That sounds fuckin’  _ awful,”  _ Louis laughs, eyes crinkling sweetly in a grin.

“It was! How are you supposed to tell your mum you’re straight when you’ve got literal spunk all over your face?” Harry cries, burying his red face in his hands. “My God, I’ve never told anyone that story,” he huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s rare that I ever pull out a sex story, not even around the queens. I feel like such a prude.”

“Guess tonight’s different, then,” Louis says with a grin. “I haven’t got any good ones, but I once got with a guy who had a picture of his mum and grandmother beside his bed. How the fuck are you supposed to stare at mummy when you’re in the middle of shagging someone?”

Harry snorts into his second drink of the night, a Manhattan. When he finishes nursing it, he picks out a maraschino cherry to chew on, and stares over at Louis as he cleans his last glass of the night. The bar is empty but for them: it’s nearly 1, and all the old folk have gone home to their lonely little apartments. Usually, Harry is one of them: he’s been told (mostly by Sue) that he’s an old soul.

He can’t help but wonder where Louis would have been had Sue not asked him to come in tonight. Would he be at another pub, bartending like now, as he seems like he does this regularly? Or would he be out, doing his own tendings, scouring the clubs of the Lower East side or smoking up with a friend? Would he be having sex— does he have a partner he’s not telling Harry about? He holds himself like a man who would be in a happy relationship, so cool and calm that Harry wouldn’t be too surprised if he caught a ring glimmering on his finger. 

(Oh, god, what if he has a wife? God knows how many of Harry’s crushes have ended up having wives at home.)

“You’re staring,” Louis says from the corner of his mouth as he spins around, wet glass in his hand. He whips out the rag, which was strewn over his shoulder, and uses it to dry the glass, avoiding Harry’s eye. 

Sucking on the end of the cherry stem, surely dyeing his lips bright red in its wake, Harry keeps staring. It’s hard not to with the way Louis’ neck looks now, his collarbones peeking out subtly underneath the collar of his white tee, or the way he grips the glass tightly, the bluish veins on the back of his hands driving Harry crazy.

He chews on the stem, tongue running along it contemplatively. If he’s honest, he hasn’t pulled in a while, always too shy to ask anyone out unless it’s a bold, uninhibited hookup with a man in the crowd of the ballrooms after a particularly eventful night. He always gets a little too impulsive when he's in one of those moods, a little too ready to do anything without a second glance back.

Tonight is different: tonight is slow, heartfelt, warm like it's being woven together by gentle hands. Louis’ skin looks slightly tanned under the yellowish light the bar gives off. As he sets the glass back on a shelf above him, he finally meets Harry’s eye.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out for a long moment, except for, “Erm—” Louis waits, patiently, letting him scramble the words around in his brain before he speaks. “My flat is only a few blocks west,” he tells Louis.

“Yeah?”

A shy nod, staring down at his hands fiddling with the rim of the glass. It's quiet between them again, the only sound coming from the drip of the tap water and the radio still pushing out songs, growing more and more tiresome as the minutes pass. Harry straightens his back, lifting his eyes to find Louis looking at him, lips pursed into a smile as if to say,  _ you're just what I was looking for tonight. _

But it's funny— neither of them were looking for each other. There was no seeking of a new mate, or someone to shag, or someone to pour someone’s drink. It's something different, nicer than that, sentimental and strange in a way that Harry wants to keep buried in his brain to think about before he falls asleep at night.

“Let’s go there, then,” Louis says finally, after sucking in a nervous breath. “I'm sure Sue won't mind if we close up shop a bit earlier than usual.”

  
  


*

  
  


Harry’s place is small and on the first floor of an old building Downtown. The windows are large with diamond grids that, in the morning sunrise, often cast endearing shadows across Harry’s bed to wake up to. The curtains he has are sheer and pale white like the walls, though the walls are covered in old movie posters and framed art he's taken from shops around town. Some of it is his own stuff, from when he used to photograph, pictures of his friends, trees and buildings, the sunset over the George Washington bridge.

Louis lights a cigarette as soon as they step inside. Harry excuses himself to the bathroom, feeling the makeup start to sit on his skin heavily. When he looks in the mirror, he almost blushes (not that you would see it with the way his rouge looks): his lips are bitten and bright red from chewing on them and the cherries all night; his eyes are light and hazy, lined with the kohl Jackie had applied and smudged around the edges after crying-laughing at something Louis said earlier in the bar. His hair is undone, wet and curly after going to the bathroom right after the ball and splashing water to partly undo the stiff gel in his finger waves. He felt bad doing it; Cinzia had done a beautiful job. Now, though, he looks partly ridiculous and partly sinful, the strap of his nightgown slipping off his pale shoulder as he touches his face and undoes the zipper JC had put in the side of the dress whilst tailoring it.

When he's done washing up, he comes back out to see Louis on the floor, petting his cat, Lucy, who doesn't ever come out when strangers are around. He glances over his shoulder at Harry, smiling with a cigarette tucked between his lips.

“She likes me,” he says, and softly pets the cat atop her head. The cat purrs loudly and rubs her cheek against Louis’ knee, sliding her skinny body along before circling back for more pets. It's incredibly endearing, and Harry can’t stop himself from grinning as he watches them from the threshold. 

The nightgown starts to get itchy, so he shoulders out of the straps and lets it pool at his ankles until all he’s left in is his pearls and his knickers, not even an ounce of self-consciousness as he unsnaps the garter and slowly pulls off his stockings. He feels Louis looking at him, at the way his legs are soft and shaven beneath the stockings, and doesn't dare glance over to catch his reaction. 

“Fuck,” he hears Louis murmur as he's shimmying down his pants and the suspenders. He grins over, dimples digging into his cheeks. Louis is still on the floor, leaning back on his elbows, his legs stretched out and clad in a pair of worn black denim. 

When he's naked, he starts to pull off the long pearl necklace from around his neck, but Louis makes a noise in protest. “Leave that on, babe.”

“Okay.”

He smiles shyly at the attention, stepping over to kneel in front of Louis, who sits up again, his fingers brushing over where the string of pearls rests on his collarbones and drifts down to where the necklace ends in the center of his torso. (“Old-ass pearls,” Sylvia had told him. She had bought them cheap from a vendor on Canal Street. “These are what they used to wear back then, can you believe that?”)

He breathes in shakily: Louis’ eyes are intense, narrow and blue and almost icy if he looks at them a certain way. He feels himself get harder in anticipation of what he might do, with the way his warm, rough palm is resting over Harry’s rapid heartbeat, almost teasingly, as if to say, “Do I make you  _ that _ nervous?”

_ It's not nerves _ , Harry wants to say.  _ You make me hot. _

Louis’ eyes drift down to Harry’s crotch, making a  _ tch tch  _ sound with his tongue. “Hard already, babe? We haven't even started.”

It's embarrassing. They haven't even kissed yet, though Harry wants to— is  _ dying _ to feel Louis’ lips against his own, like it's something he needs to survive. He's good, though: he'll wait for Louis. It seems like the right thing to do, the right dynamic to go with. Louis, he noticed while they were talking for hours in the bar, seems assertive, bossy in a way that isn't off-putting— even as they exited, after the lights were flicked off and the bouncer said goodnight and they were walking down the dimly lit streets to Harry’s building, Louis kept a firm, steering hand on Harry's waist. It fit there perfectly, his palm pressing possessively into Harry’s sensitive skin. He wouldn't mind if it were always there.

He swallows thickly in response. This close, Louis smells like the cigarette he just smoked, like dust and cheap pound-store cologne, like mint chewing gum and alcohol. It feels heady and overwhelming, and Harry can't help but hang his head forward, their lips brushing together in the most minute touch he couldn't be sure if it were a dream or not.

Not at all: Louis surges forward then, connects their lips in a kiss that shakes Harry at first, then relaxes him, sets him into a new skin that feels coy, yet reserved: submissive and pliant to Louis’ touch, something he can meld with his workman hands. 

“What do you want, darling?” Louis asks after what feels like hours of mindless snogging, Harry straddling Louis hips completely naked, still, miraculously, sitting on the floor. Harry hums, feels the thrum of their lips as he does so, and leans in to keep kissing him.

It feels natural, is the thing. Kissing Louis doesn't feel like the way it might with men at a club or the awkward kisses he shared in his adolescence. It comes breezily, like a new skill he didn't know he had. Moreover, it feels like it matters.

Louis lets them for a moment, until Harry starts to grind down, remembering his arousal and gyrating his hips into Louis’ thighs. His hand— resting at the back of Harry’s neck— firmly clutches the curls there and pulls him back, not rough but enough so that Harry's lips fall open, his eyes slipped shut in a silent moan. 

“Shit, Harry,” Louis murmurs, his voice rasped around the edges, “What do you want, pretty girl?”

Harry preens under the name, eyes blinking open. “Anything,” he says, and upon realizing the uselessness of the answer, he clears his throat, composing himself at least partially. “I'll do anything you want. Um— you can do, erm, me if you want. Or— or whatever you want.” He grows quiet, bashful again, biting his lip, glancing over Louis’ shoulder to where Lucy is sitting on the windowsill. 

“Yeah?” Louis asks, hands roaming up and down Harry’s back, fingers dipping into where his shoulder blades stick out, thumbs pressing into the dimples above his bum.

“Yeah,” Harry nods in certainty. He stands up, though, and in haste grabs Lucy and pads over to the bathroom. “Just… let me get rid of her for a moment.”

Louis laughs. “Right. Wouldn’t want that to be an awkward sex story you've got to tell to another bartender in ten years,” he says as Harry closes the door to a dismayed kitten. “‘My cat watched me get dicked down, now I can’t look her in the eyes without feeling judged. I think she's homophobic.’”

Harry cackles, and pulls Louis up to the bed. It feels somehow safer now, better underneath Louis, who kisses him slow at first, tongue running along the seam of his lips, before quickly turning it to a different kind of kiss, one that sends bursts of heat through Harry’s body, little tremors that make him tug desperately at Louis’ t-shirt until he pulls back to take it off. 

Then, his hands roam over Louis’ chest, as if memorizing it with the tips of his fingers. “You're so fit,” he mumbles against Louis’ mouth. “ _ God _ .”

Louis’ hand trails up Harry’s chest, fingers wrapping gently around his neck, giving a light squeeze as a sort of warning, a prerequisite of what’s to come. Harry blinks up at him, mouth falling open, jaw slack when Louis asks: “Can you turn over for me, love?”

He does ( _ of course  _ he does) and lets Louis’ hands grip at his hips, manhandling him where he wants him, where he can spit down on him and lick him out leisurely, like this is a treat he’s been waiting to take pleasure in. Harry lets out a broken moan, hips stuttering back into Louis’ face.

It’s over-sensational— the rubbing of Louis’ beard on the backs of his thighs, the way his thumbs are spreading him open and the way his tongue is licking broadly, making him feel wet and sticky. Every time he pulls back for breath, the cool air hits his skin and he lets out a shaky moan. 

“Fuck,  _ fuck,”  _ he squeaks out, tears flooding his eyes because it feels so—  _ good. _ He hasn’t had this in so long, and he revels in it.

“Shh,” Louis says, finally pulling back, replacing his tongue with the pad of his thumb. Harry presses his cheek into the mattress, his neck and jaw straining from being in this position for— how long was Louis licking him out? He couldn’t tell, was too lost in the stimulation to care. “Feel good?”

“Mmh,” Harry says, hips pushing back into his touch. “Please, please,” he whimpers.

The next is unexpected— he feels Louis’ hand slide down his back, down the obscene arch of his spine, and half-expects his fingers to dip into his hair and pull at the curls like he did before. Instead, they stop short, fingers playing with the pearls around his neck before tugging hard. The necklace shifts, pressing into his throat, cutting off his breath momentarily as Louis holds it back. 

“ _ Ohmygod,”  _ Harry lets out when the hold loosens, eliciting a shaky, almost-nervous laugh behind him.

“Sorry, was that— was that alright?”

Harry cuts him off, nodding, signaling for more, his hips stuttering back almost aggressively. “S’good,  _ fuck _ , please please,  _ Louis—” _

Louis seems to get the memo— he resumes his handiwork, mouthing along his flesh, one hand tugging at the pearls hard enough that Harry wonders if the necklace will snap under the pressure, his other hand dipping between Harry’s thighs to pull him off. 

He comes when Louis tells him to: “C’mon, angel, let go f’me,” in his raspy voice before he bites down on his skin and tugs harshly at the pearls. It lasts what feels like forever, a euphoria that blinds him, makes him feel like he’s just seen heaven in its purest form. He doesn't know what words and profanities he's letting out in the midst of it, but he knows strewn in the middle of it is Louis’ name, sounding new yet familiar in his voice, a prayer he’s quickly memorized.

Afterwards, his hips slump back on the bed, the sensation too much to keep going. He lay there, sweaty and heaving for breath, as Louis’ palms massage the backs of his thighs comfortingly.

When he feels conscious enough to speak, he croaks out, “Holy shit.”

Louis just laughs his spritely laugh, enticing enough that Harry rolls over on his back to watch him. He feels sticky all around, dirty yet satisfied. His eyes droop as he stares over at Louis, all the energy sucked out of him and replaced by a satiated tranquility; he always gets a bit sleepy post-orgasm. 

“You're incredible,” he tells Louis, who’s still hard. He's not waiting, though. He's not pushing for Harry to get him off. He's patient, understanding, watching him with these eyes that Harry’s never seen before, gentle and overwhelmingly affectionate when coupled with the small, surreptitious smile on his face.

Harry finally sits up and lunges to kiss him. It’s languid and smoother than before, tastes like sweat and skin and smoke. Harry is earnest, eager, palms cupping Louis’ jaw to deepen the kiss before he mumbles against his lips, panting: “Want you to fuck me, Lou.”

It flips a switch. Louis grows fervent, connecting their lips hungrily once again. From then on they’re in different motions, Harry laying back, hips propped up on a pillow, spread out; Louis frantically searching— “Have you got a condom?” “Yes, in the drawer.” “God, Harry. Jesus. You look so pretty like tha’. Bet you’ll feel so good.”

It takes a while to get used to the feeling— Harry hasn’t done it in a while, not like this. Louis is tender, patient, though Harry can see the strain it’s putting on him to not buck his hips. They set a pace, stopping every few minutes to shift into a more comfortable position for both of them. It’s when Louis adjusts his hips in just the right direction that Harry lets out a startled groan, throwing his head back on the pillow. 

“S’that good, darling? Like tha’?”

“Yes, yes—  _ please!” _

In the midst of it, a noise cuts them off. Harry doesn’t hear it at first, until he feels Louis’ thrusts slowing down and opens his eyes to see him laughing. A pang of anxiety spreads through his chest.

“What? What are you laughing at?”

Then he hears it. Lucy, behind the closed door of the bathroom, is frantically scratching at the door, unwavering, her high-pitched meows sounding through the whole apartment. 

“Oh, my god,” Louis says through a laugh. “She’s gone berserk, that cat.”

Harry throws an arm over his face, grinning embarrassedly. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” Louis says thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the line of Harry’s hips. He’s still huffing out little laughs. “It’s fuckin’ funny.”

“Now we both have embarrassing sex stories, huh?”

Louis leans down, nosing at the forearm covering Harry’s eyes. He kisses him sweetly on the lips, chaste and unapologetic. 

Harry won’t ever forget the look in Louis’ eyes when he opened his own. It was something out of a fairy tale, a romance made for them, tender and unique. He looked at Harry as if he’d just hung the stars and the moon and the whole solar system, everything he sees in the sky. Like Harry is some sort of hidden relic he can’t believe he’s found; a trophy from a game he didn’t know he was playing.

  
  


*

  
  


_ 1991. _

The hospital is bleak and artificial, the linoleum floors spotless as if they’d been washed clean of all the people who have died on them. Harry stares at his Keds as he walks down the hallway. He doesn’t have to look up to know where he’s going anymore; it’s muscle memory.

The woman at the counter looked tired and irritated, popping her gum loudly as she asked his name and visitation in a loud Brooklyn accent. Harry was shy answering, always has been. He blinked at her and asked if he could visit his “step-brother” on the fifth floor, and she nodded and popped her gum. 

She probably gets that often, he thinks. She probably knows it’s a facade. She knows what the fifth floor means, and she knows what Harry is by taking a single glance at him— at his Village People mustache, his tight shirt and tight jeans. It’s obvious. 

The fifth floor is arguably the busiest floor in the hospital, with beds less than a meter apart from each other, only a thin curtain separating them if that. He knows where Louis’ bed is, though he’d just gotten hospitalized last week.  _ It’s just for treatment,  _ the tight-lipped doctor told him. Harry’s hand ached where it needed to hold Louis’.  _ He’ll be out in a few weeks time.  _

That’s if the treatment goes well. God, Harry fucking hopes it goes well. He’s seen what happens, he’s been to enough funerals where only a handful of people actually attend. It keeps him up at night to have to phone Louis’ family overseas, to explain who he is and why he’s calling, to keep from sobbing over the telephone.

His heart aches. But Louis looks alright, he thinks. He’s napping, head nodding off to the side. He looks younger, healthier— he looks alive.

Harry kisses him to wake him up, like he does at home. It must be the roughness of his mustache against Louis’ own facial hair, or the dip in the bed where Harry sits that rouses Louis. He smiles when he sees Harry, tired and gentle.

“Hi, darling,” he mumbles raspily. Harry’s hand finds his— muscle memory— and grips it, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles in greeting. He doesn’t feel like talking today. Today is for listening, or otherwise for silence. 

“Missed you last night,” Louis says. “Woke up to a bloody nurse instead of your face. Honestly, they should staff more strapping young men in this place.”

Harry laughs. “Can’t have that. I’d get too jealous.”

“Mm,” Louis hums. “You do get jealous.” His hand, still wrapped up in Harry’s, breaks free to reach out for his face, thumb brushing the hair above his lip. “Have I told you how much I love it?”

“What, the mustache?”

“Yes. It’s fantastic. You’re up against Tom Selleck with this one, babe.” He pulls Harry closer, though his touch isn’t as strong as it usually is. Harry feels stupid and guilty for noticing; he knows they could have it worse. He’s seen the couples who have gone through treatment, cancer-like chemotherapy that leaves their heads hairless and bodies scrawny and thin. He’s seen people nearly pass out just from coughing. He’s seen people bound to the mattress, unable even to stand up.

“You’re worried,” Louis says, surveying his face quizzically. “I’m alright, babe. Promise.”

Harry nods.  _ I know. I’m just scared. _

“You know I wouldn’t leave you like that, right? Couldn’t bear to leave you alone in this world. God knows the horrible decisions you’ll make when I’m gone.” He pulls at Harry’s shirt, red-and-white striped, fitting his torso like a glove. “You’re already halfway there. What were you going for here,  _ Where’s Waldo _ ?”

His teasing voice, cutting through the dreadful air of this room, sends Harry into a fit of tear-filled laughter, the kind that escapes you when you’re just so overwhelmed with joy and playful exasperation, with love. The air in here is crisp and cold, but when they kiss, it’s sweeter, syrupy. Harry thinks— given the circumstances— this is fine.

“What have you got there, love?” Louis points to the big brown Bloomingdale’s bag by Harry’s feet.

“Oh—” Harry picks it up. “Sylvia and I made care packages last night, you know, for Christmastime and stuff. Like… you know, normal stuff. Tissues and, um. Lotion and stuff. Oh, and we went and bought everyone a chocolate bar. Oh, and JC bought a ton of these graphic t-shirts, you know, with the Keith Haring design— well, he could only find so many, so for the rest I just gave them some ‘I <3 NY’ shirts from the guy who has that kiosk around the corner? you know the Arab guy on Broadway? Anyway, we spent all night doing it ‘cause the ball was cancelled, and anyway I didn’t feel too much like going.”

Maybe today is for talking. Louis is smiling at him in the playful way he does when Harry rambles like this. Harry feels his ears heat up. 

“Bit ironic, innit. ‘I heart New York.’ S’not like this state’s doing much for us.”

Harry frowns. He didn’t realize that until now. The state– the whole country neglects them, would rather see people like them die than do anything to help them. Patients are sent to this floor if they have the money and insurance to stay for treatment. If not, they’re all but thrown onto the streets to die. It makes Harry sick to his stomach. 

“S’alright, babe. They’ll love them. M’sure these lads won’t get many presents this year,” Louis assures him, his hand squeezing Harry’s comfortingly.

“I saved you a shirt, f’you want it,” Harry says quietly. “It was one of the more… Uh, risque ones.”

“Oh, god,” Louis says, laughing lightly. Abruptly, he starts to cough, a terrible hacking cough that comes from his chest. Harry tries to make peace with it, his brain in denial ( _ It’s just a little cold. It’ll go away.).  _

He busies himself with finding the shirt through the care packages, through the bright red-and-green wrapping paper and the ribbons. When he pulls it out and unfolds it, Louis laughs through his cough. “Jesus, Haz. Where’d JC get that?”

“Dunno,” Harry says through a grin, glancing at the shirt. On it, two of Haring’s faceless characters wank each other off, characterized by harsh black lines and the bubble letters which read, ‘SAFE SEX.’ “You don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want. I just thought it was funny.”

“It is quite funny. I like it. Thank you.”

He takes the t-shirt in his hands and Harry leans down again to kiss him.

They talk for a few hours, Louis scooching over on the mattress so they can lay side-by-side and stare at the blank white ceiling. Harry wishes he’d brought his Walkman so they can listen to the new mix he made— Prince’s new song,  _ Diamonds and Pearls,  _ with one of Harry’s new favorite lyrics, “If I gave you diamonds and pearls, would you be a happy boy or a girl? If I could I would give you the world, but all I can do is just offer you my love.”

Instead they talk.

Harry gets up when Louis starts to doze off, to hand out the packages to the others on the floor. There’s Richie, in the bed across from Louis’— hospitalized six months ago. His partner left, couldn’t handle the pressure or the guilt or the fear or whatever it was. Then there’s Leon, who Harry recognizes as a dancer from one of the ballrooms he’s been over the past few years. Then Mikey, then Al— Paul and the other Mike, Christopher and John, Jose who doesn’t speak English but gives Harry a warm teary hug in response. 

It’s not that much, really, but it’s enough to make Harry crawl back onto the stiff hospital bed next to Louis and smile into his neck. In a week, it’s Louis’ birthday. The doctor will say that he’s fit enough to take the treatment at home unless his chest cold gets horrible again; Harry prays it won’t, for selfish reasons like wanting to wake up next to his boyfriend— his— his  _ husband Harry, you’ve got to start calling me that. Didn’t buy you that bloody expensive ring to sound like a prom date.  _

Louis’ birthday, and then Christmas morning. Just the two of them, and Lucy, lounging in bed all day, content to be with one another. 

It’s where they’re best, after all, when curled up beneath the sheets, the morning sunlight tanning their skin, the whole world calm and quiet, waiting for them to wake up.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello. This was just a short drabble from a few different ideas I had. I liked the idea of Harry being a part of a drag ball and I liked the idea of them being gay in the 80s. Tried not to make it a tragedy, but realistic enough for a gay couple back then. 
> 
> Not much else to say! Let me know what you think. The smut's horrible, I know— not my strong point. 
> 
> Comments are appreciated!!!


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